DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT CLIMBING UP HERE

My daughter, she’s to blame. At her prodding, I joined Facebook; you know, 21st century’s electronic version of a personal diary, only now personal translates to public. She sent me emails, daily, telling me to add something...anything, to my home page. True, there were gaping holes of white space, no photos, and no notes written on the Notes link. It was, however, this exacting message, ‘my patience’s wearing thin,’ that finally pushed me into action. Hey Mom—Still waiting to see that map of yours of all the places you’ve been. For tips, check out my travel map site, or check Nancy’s travel site, or check...check...check—Robin.
Okaaay!

I once heard someone say that if he could live his life traveling, he’d gladly give up everything he owned—it wasn’t until I arrived home from my first extended trip that I fully understood such a singular passion.

I have traveled to Hawaii, Canada (Toronto), England (London, Strafford-Upon-Avon), Germany, Austria, Switzerland (Gstaad), where cows are given names and parade through the streets at the end of summer; to Italy, Greece, where on a bathroom visit, I was introduced to my first hole in the floor. I went to Turkey (Ephesus), where the ghosts of early Christians hover in the air and voices, unlike any I’ve heard, tickle my ears; and where public latrines line the walls with only inches separating them as though one's most intimate act was then considered simply a social activity; to Brazil (Rio de Janeiro), where drinking the water will lay you flat out. In 2000, I saw The Passion Play in Oberammergau, tears blurring the eyes of everyone around me; the deep hush was almost touchable. When leaving, only the press of feet grating across the concrete floor broke through the silence. I heard a young violinist play chamber music in Vienna; he made the violin strings sing a new voice.

I took my first big trip with my husband, John, to Rio de Janeiro in January 1968. Suddenly, I owned a passport, new luggage, and a TRAVEL BOOK. I had come of age. I packed days and days ahead of time...still do, occasionally. My husband’s aunt arrived to care for Robin and Scott, our two small children. At sunrise the next day, John and I left for the airport, joining a group of his co-workers and friends in the music industry. I remember the long flight, the food that appeared seemingly on the hour, the laughter, the jokes that circled; and the party mood that started the moment the plane lifted in flight. On our arrival, a tour guide escorted us to the hotel; she pointed out that there were no traffic lights, pedestrians had the right-of-way, and the extra-wide sidewalks in the down-town area allowed cars to pull up directly in front of the stores. Every morning, young children, with old eyes too knowing, gathered on the hotel steps, standing with their hands extended as we exited the hotel. Wealth and poverty, both in the extreme, existed side by side. Sprawling mansions were common sights, also the endless shanty towns that crept up the hillsides unfit for development. On the last day of our visit, a van carried us to the highest part of the city, Corcovado Mountain. At the main entrance, steps, hundreds of them, led going up even farther to the huge statue of CHRIST THE REDEEMER that towers over Rio. When I finally reached the top and stood looking into His face, I knew why millions of people are drawn to this place.

In January, 1990, I went to London with a co-worker, Rosa. It was the week of the war, Desert Storm. We were advised to cancel the trip, but we had booked months in advance and wouldn’t consider it. When we boarded in Charlotte, our plane was less than half-full, as was our connecting flight; the empty seats became prized possessions at night-time. In the most populated business area around London, tall, red, double-decker buses thronged the streets, along with boxy, black taxis that looked like bloated mafia cars; and when inside, the passenger area swallowed our four suitcases with room to spare. We rubbed elbows with royalty...well, almost. We did stay at the Royal Gardens Hotel which is next door to Hyde Park and Kensington Palace; and Prince Charles’s driveway is adjacent to the hotel’s dining room—and we always asked for a window seat...to wave, perhaps. We watched the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and later, had lunch in a pub in Strafford-Upon-Avon. It was the chalk writing-board message near the entrance that enticed us in: Don’t be miserable outside, come in and be fed up! (bad joke, but the food’s good. HONEST). We toured Windsor Castle, and at mid-afternoon, spotted students coming from Eton; each one, from teenaged to very young, dressed in formal attire, black tie and tails. At the end of our days, we sat clothed in a like-wise finery, in the white marble-floored lobby of our hotel, sipping refreshments and listening to music played on a white Grand Piano by a white tuxedoed musician. Our own slice of royalty! We saw Phantom of the Opera in an 800 year-old theatre and were served ice cream at our seats, during intermission. Spoiled we were! But—we were to get our comeuppance! It began when checking in at the airport. Rosa, who is Japanese, was traveling with a green card that carried her Japanese name while her flight ticket showed her American name. She was questioned at length, and released. Then, the mace sprayer on my key chain triggered the metal detector alarm and I was pulled aside. The sprayer was taken. I was asked if I had been traveling with it on the streets while in London, and when I said yes, the police were called. Rosa and I were bodily searched, suitcases meticulously searched; and two hours later, we were escorted to our waiting plane. I was told not to plan on returning to England anytime soon. It’s been 19 years.

My friend, Nancy, and I went out west in mid-summer, 1994; it was an eye opener! At times, I felt in another country, the scenery so vastly different: homes built of unbaked clay brick called adobe, long stretches of bare, uninhabited land, and the exceedingly dry air, thirsting up my mouth. On arrival at Carlsbad Caverns, we were given an option: to walk the two-mile down trail, or take an elevator. With my curiosity already running ahead, I, of course, chose to walk. Again, it seemed I had stepped into another world, one of breathtaking beauty so surreal it topped anything my imagination could envision: bats hanging from nearby lowered areas, the smell of mustiness that clung to my skin, the twists and turns as I moved down into a shadowed hole that led deeper and deeper. And all the while my eyes darted everywhere, sweeping clouds of drapery—Nature induced—colorful minerals, the sounds of dripping water I never saw, and deep ravines on either side of the path that hinted of an unfathomable depth. When I reached a solid floor, it felt the center of earth. And maybe it was.

On the move once more—our bus arrived in White City, New Mexico. Nearby was White Sands, our next stop. Sand dunes as tall as multi-storied buildings charted the landscape, and when climbing up the wall of sand (yes, the sand was indeed WHITE), it shifts and one can mire up quickly. The bus driver said the sand is plowed from the roads every day so that buses can get in and out. After our sand-play, we returned to White City and had lunch at the locally famous eating establishment, the Velvet Garter. We were told to be on the lookout for gunplay going on next door at Fast Jack’s Saloon. Meals went uneaten. We rushed outside—a wagon sat at the ready out front...with a wooden sign that read: Don’t even think about climbing up here. We burst out laughing! At night, the main attraction in this two-block town boasts of having the last remaining vaudeville theatre around, Granny’s Opera House. When I stepped inside the small lobby, I was offered a box of popcorn, I said, "No, thank you, I've already had dinner." She replied, “My dear, this isn't for eating, this is to throw at the performers during the play." Needless to say, my friends and I had a great time trying to see who had the best throwing arm. My mother taught me never to brag!

More memory spikes—1994. Albuquerque topped our list for the day. After a long bus ride that carried us across a vast span of desert-like land, we arrived at Scandia Peak. We rode a tram up toward the clouds to a restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows, and when looking out, I saw only open space, above and below. The menu displayed no prices, only meal selections: delicacies, decadent desserts, and gourmet dishes to drool over. Our tour guide announced that for this dinner, nothing was off limits. The day slipped quickly into early evening, then into a darkness that hinted of no boundaries. Someone asked the waiter if Captain Kirk was in the building, and if we had been secretly put aboard the space ship, Enterprise—we received sly grins in answer. During the ride back down (a flight through the night), sounds of ohs and ahs circled, chanted as though on cue. We soared with the birds that day—twice. Yet, I welcomed ‘terra firma’ underneath my feet, it felt like home.

While still traveling in New Mexico, Taos was next on the agenda. We arrived at Pueblo Village in mid-morning. For most of our group this was a first visit to an Indian village; we stood quietly looking out at the tiny squat adobe buildings. I was struck by the absence of people, the feel of lean times too often, and a sense of desperation, heavy in the air; even a nearby stream hugged its narrow banks greedily. Stillness held the land as though a hostage caught up in a history that tore at the very seam of freedom. We were allowed to walk only on designated paths. A very old, lone Indian watched as we moved toward him; we were told pictures could be taken with this honored man, their chief. He posed in a long tan leather wrap, his thin white hair fluttering in the gentle breeze; deep lines mapped his darkly bronzed complexion; a black feather rose from a beaded headband tight around his forehead, and moccasin-style boots peeped from the hem of his cloak—his face appeared as though carved in stone; only his eyes moved. He was once the leader of many warriors, spoke with the voice of authority; now, he was the subject of pictures, his lifework reduced to clicks of a camera, and the five dollars given for his time. We boarded our bus, the quietness following us in.

It was a simple sign: a square piece of wood attached to a single pole, the black painted letters uneven, as though put on in haste. I can’t recall where exactly this message was posted as we headed for the hotel, but I remember its words vividly: 50 MILES FROM TOWN, 30 MILES FROM WATER, 2 FEET FROM HELL.
Remaining in New Mexico, we filed out in the soft light of early morning and gathered around the bus to hear our guide announce our day’s plans—Bandelier, Santa Fe’s National Forest. Long, long ago, Anasazi Indians, known as the cliff dwellers, occupied this area. They lived in caves pocketed deep inside the high cliffs and mountains that landmarked this forest. Ladders provided the only access to these caves. We were told the Anasazi Indians probably constructed ladders much like the ones we were using, although made of wood native to the area; and that at night, they most likely pulled them in for the family’s safety. Five of us climbed into the first cave; I wondered if the Anasazi had been rather short of stature because even the shortest of our group had to stoop. Inside, along the walls, more pockets were dug out, like small sleeping compartments. I crawled inside one, and quickly backed out. I could only surmise that no one at that time had suffered from claustrophobia. Before leaving, I looked out from the cave’s entrance; this was eagle’s territory. Level ground appeared a long ways down. Back on the bus, I sank low in my seat, grateful for the comforts of my present world.

Known as an artist colony, Santa Fe spread out before us like a painter’s palette. Long, rambling, adobe-styled walls stood as eye-catching murals of art: rich tones of red, yellow, green, deep brown, and blues the color of the noonday sky. On a walk the next day, I spied ‘The Cat House,’ a small, square, wood building. A statue of an enraged cat with his back arched in defiance stalked the front entrance. Everywhere pictures of cats, dishes shaped like a cat’s head, bed linens with prancing cats, and even bedroom shoes with cat ears filled shelves. There was not one item that did not share a token connection with the feline society. I am not a cat lover, I prefer dogs; however, this cat house merited its ‘must see’ label. Loretto Chapel was next on the tour schedule. The story of the free-standing staircase in its sanctuary has been shown on TV; it still baffles engineers to this day. The legend goes that a carpenter appeared one day at the sanctuary after the nuns had exhausted every means to find a builder; no money to pay a worker. The stranger, alone, and with only a handful of tools, built the circular loft staircase. When finished, he called the sisters in to view the completed work. They were mesmerized by its beauty. They turned around to thank the carpenter, but, he was nowhere to be found—they had never even known His name.

During mid-summer of 2000, I went with friends to Germany, Switzerland, and Austria. Our plane landed in Heidelberg around noon and in very short order we were aboard a waiting bus and into nothing short of grid-lock traffic. I realized right away that bicycles were a favored way of transportation; they were everywhere you looked. At train stations, hundreds of them crowded the parking areas. And in spite of age predispositions, it was a common sight to see an elderly person pedaling with expertise in this maze of activity.

In Geneva, my education moved forward—in search of a restroom, and with no luck; someone in the hallway recognized my look of distress and led me to a door with the letters WC printed on front—WC. Water closet. Aha! Yet more surprises awaited me inside. When I flushed the toilet I jumped up immediately; the seat was moving, circling completely around. I left the room laughing, and laughing still as I took my seat at the table. I told no one; they, too, needed a good laugh.

In the twilight of early evening, our bus pulled into Lucerne. It seemed an island; water met my every look. Early the next morning, our tour started with a long walk under a wood-covered bridge. It links the many separate areas over wide stretches of water and is said to be several hundred years old. Our guide told us our timing couldn’t have been better. The city sparkled with statues, three to five feet high, of frogs, adorned with pearls, sequins, gem stones, and anything that could flash in sunlight. One lucky frog even sat on a motorcycle, showing off his traveling gear: helmet, wide glasses, and black driving gloves. The contest was in full force for the most alluring frog. I voted for all of them! We boarded a boat for a trip to Stanser Horn Mountain. During the ride my friends were having a grand time at a back table, giggling and carrying on—until they spotted me at the helm, my hands on the guiding wheel, the captain’s hat on my head—and the captain sitting to one side. Mouths froze in mid-laughs. I waved. They didn’t know the automatic pilot was on—and when I lifted both hands, they screamed. Grinning, the captain rose, grabbed the wheel and settled the hat once again on the rightful head. We all laughed then. When we arrived at Stanser Horn, we were told a special surprise awaited us in the back courtyard. We crowded into the area, gaping at the man on the porch. He held onto a horn that spilled down over several steps, the lower end rounded out like a swollen pipe’s mouth. He said it was an Alphorn and that its history dated back to 500 years. It was used to communicate in the early years, to call to the cows, and later became a special musical instrument for Switzerland. The horn was eleven feet long and required two years in apprenticeship. The speaker became quiet, looked out at us and shifted the horn toward his mouth. He took a deep breath, audible in the hushed silence. And then he BLEW!

On a bright Sunday morning, our bus arrived in Gstaad, a small city surrounded by mountains. Window boxes, overflowing with tulips, graced every building, and colorful flags of all shapes and sizes suggested a carnival atmosphere. Cows are revered here and given a family prominence with proper names. In summer, they are taken to the highest mountain for a retreat and closely monitored milk production. At the end of summer, the most productive cow, adorned with a floral chain necklace and a bell, leads the long procession of decorated cows in a march throughout the city. Gold cow rings are all the rage in the most elite jewelry stores; and yes, I did purchase one.

Next, we toured Mozart’s birthplace in Salzburg. The most treasured item in the building is Mozart’s first violin; it is encased in a thick glass enclosure. I barely escaped with my life after clicking a picture; I was spotted and reprimanded heatedly—and although they spoke in German—I did hear the words, “Oh, just an American,” spat out as they walked away. I shared the picture with everyone on our bus!

Our next stop was Oberammergau, located in Germany’s largest nature reserve. The staging of the PASSION PLAY pulls in millions of people from all over the world. The legend is told that a Black Death plague threatened the area in 1632; and in spite of securing the walls, the illness found a way in. The people asked God’s help, vowing to stage a pious play to ‘THE SUFFERING AND DEATH OF OUR LORD.’ The plague ended and the play was staged the next year. It is performed every ten years.

Vienna was our last destination. The unforgettable music that I wrote about earlier was played by a twenty-one-year-old Russian, Anton Sorokov. His instrument is valued at two million dollars. It was a gift from the city, bestowed on him when still a teenager, for his exceptional talent. The violin is dated 1647 and is, of course—a Stradivarius.

Late in November of 2005, I traveled with a church group to Italy, Greece and Turkey. Our first stop was Venice, a city built on a number of islands in a shallow lagoon. Its future is questionable, threatened now with flooding and pollution. On the second day, we rode by water-taxi to a main island of Venice where no cars are allowed. Crowds gather daily in the massive Square at St. Mark’s Basilica, taking pictures, eating a catch-up snack, and…people watching. Undeterred by throngs of people with roaming feet, hundreds of pigeons prance boldly, bobbing their heads in constant search of dropped food. Boldly indeed—even to the surprise of a fellow traveler when one plump-breasted creature took a liking to her head and on landing, nestled down for a long rest…. Alertness must be practiced at all times: statues become suddenly alive, sending my heartbeat up into my throat—until I realize they are real people, disguised, and merely a part of the island’s entertainment for tourists.

On the first morning in Greece, a tour guide stepped inside our bus. “Welcome to the land of the Bible,” he said. It was a statement that grew in truth as we ventured deeper inside Greece. It is a land where centuries-old olive trees sit hunched and knotted, like aged warriors bent by time and wind; and as I walked along well-worn paths, I could only wonder on the long-ago footsteps, and a history that hid in plain sight. Greece proved to be a place of great diversity: metropolitan cities at a glance, yet poverty in areas that appeared trapped in an earlier time period; unearthed, archaeological biblical sites that defied adequate description, and cafes that were filled with only men.

Ephesus was a full day’s tour. Deteriorated buildings stood like skeletal forms, hinting of a once excessive grandeur. Facilities with public latrines bore evidence of privacy being an unknown privilege, and signs of a religious influence, the drawing of a fish, existed alongside a pagan proclivity: a large footprint pointing the way to a nearby brothel.
Our final destination in Greece was Patmos, an island that rises upward, and upward, seemingly into the clouds. We rode a bus, traveling in long twists that curved higher and higher to the Grotto where St. John wrote the last book of the Bible—Revelation. After leaving the bus, it was still farther on, a very steep climb before reaching the cave site. On the way down, with my breaths coming in gasps, my hands out to possibly check a misstep, I decided that people back then obviously aged in a different way: St. John was a ninety-six-year-old man when he lived in this place, and I was a person of…well, much less than that; and I felt every year of my age. How had he done it?

I wanted to continue with my travel notes, but my mind seemed hung up on St. John and the matter of age. Each time I settled on a place to write about, there it was again, the age thing, stepping into my way. Truly, how had he done it? I finally came to the conclusion that was probably the whole point of it—a wonderment, really—to carry home!
I was now ready to tell of my cruise adventures. My computer was still on…and waiting. An icon, in the lower right hand corner of the desktop, hummed an email alert. I clicked Open; it was from FACEBOOK—URGENT NOTICE. The body of the message read that due to a recent surge of data activity on the Travel Map Link, a malfunction had incurred, rendering the map site incapable of receiving any new data input. When a solution is found, users will be notified. THANKS, then signed, THE FACEBOOK TEAM.

I leaned back, my hands poised momentarily just above the keyboard. Then in a rush, I sat straight up, clicked on the Create Mail button, clicked on the To option, chose my daughter’s email address and typed only seven words—MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME NEVER TO BRAG! I clicked Send.

Word Count: 3898

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 26.11.2009

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